I was glad on Sunday morning when I realized that the rain had not started yet.
Sometime on Saturday afternoon, I started getting news reports about severe weather. It was first scheduled to arrive in the middle of the night, then sometime early Sunday morning. But when I got up on Sunday, the rain had not arrived yet.
I was pleasantly surprised. It was going to be an important Sunday in church, not just the 5th Sunday in Lent. We had important things to do. Afterwards, we had scheduled a meeting of parents and youth planning activities for the coming year. We have never had enough children and youth to plan activities before, and I did not want our planning meeting to be rained on.
I also had scheduled a home communion visit in the afternoon with a homebound couple from the church.
We made it through worship without any rain. I won't lie: it was a gloomy, threatening morning, but it didn't rain and we even made it through our youth planning meeting. When I went back home it had just started to sprinkle.
I called the shut-ins and said I would be over after lunch, but that I would be keeping an eye on the weather. They said they understood and would see me later.
It wasn't long after we finished eating that the wind came up, and the thunder started. On my phone I saw that there was a tornado warning in the area. Then, just a few minutes later, we heard a sound I had never heard before. I thought perhaps sirens were going off, but it wasn't exactly like that, either.
It was over soon after that.
I called my shut ins. I couldn't get through. My husband said, you will just have to go over. So I did.
When I got there I discovered that their power was out. They were sitting in the dark, eating hamburgers that one of their daughters had brought them. Even the stoplights were out on the neighboring streets.
It was still daylight outside, but inside the house it was more like twilight. We visited for awhile about natural disasters: tornadoes and earthquakes and hurricanes and blizzards -- all of the normal things. Their daughter fretted about what would happen if the power did not come on, and said she would be back to check on them later, to make sure they got to the bedroom all right. They kept re-assuring her that they would be all right.
Finally, I opened up my communion kit. It was getting darker, and I wasn't sure how well I would be able to read the prayer book. But just as I was pouring the wine, the husband got out the biggest flashlight I have ever seen and flashed it right at me. I felt a little like I was in the spotlight.
I tried to hold the book under the light and read the words while he held the light in his hand. I opened the Bible and read the gospel reading: about Mary and the anointing oil she poured over Jesus' feet -- and we wondered together about that scandalous generosity. I felt the light on the book as I tried to read the pages, and the light warm on my face, making me blink. The light exposed some things and hid other things.
And when I got to the words of institution and I held up the wafer and the small cup to the light, somehow I felt like a player on a stage -- the darkness all around -- this moment in time, this act, illuminated.
The body of Christ given for you. The blood of Christ shed for you. In the darkness.
I watch the news and despair sometimes. Of disasters natural and unnatural, preaching a gospel of chaos. These are dark times, when it seems like we cannot see each other's faces, and know that we are made in the image of God.
And then the spotlight comes on in the darkness, as the oil is poured out on Jesus' feet. The spotlight hits my face, and I realize that God is calling me to lift the cup, to break the bread, to say the words by which God reconciles the world.
The body of Christ given for you. The blood of Christ shed for you -- and for all people. In the darkness.
Showing posts with label pastoral care. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pastoral care. Show all posts
Monday, April 8, 2019
Monday, August 20, 2018
Benediction
Last week I went to visit a shut-in couple, with communion. I had heard that she was hospitalized while I was on vacation, and wanted to check in on both of them.
It has been a tough year for her. She has been hospitalized three times already, one time on Easter weekend, when she fell and had to have many stitches. It has been a tough year, and we talked about that, and about their children, and their grandchildren, and their great-grandchildren. Their large, friendly dog sat at her feet.
At the end of the communion service, I gave the traditional benediction, the one I know by heart:
"The Lord bless you and keep you.
the Lord make his face shine on you and be gracious to you.
the Lord look upon you with favor,
and give you Peace."
Afterwards, she said to me, "You know, whenever I hear those words, I feel calm and comforted. I don't know what it is."
And I said, "it's the benediction. The words are doing what they are supposed to do."
I said, "God gave those words to the people of Israel when they were wandering in the wilderness. We still say them today."
And she said, "Well, it seems like we are wandering in the wilderness today too."
I remember that I replied, "But we are on our way to the promised land."
I suppose I thought it was my job to say it, to complete the circle, to say another word, a final word. We are on our way to the promised land, wherever that is. I am not sorry I said it, but it sounded a little too glib, like I was trying to make a dissonant chord resolve.
But she told the truth, that we are in the wilderness, that we are not there yet. She was the truer preacher, even though I suspect that her wilderness looks different than mine. She worries about the floods and the fires, and thinks perhaps that we are in the End Times. I worry about the floods and the fires, and I think that we are abusing the earth, and wonder when we will repent and treat it as God's sacred creation rather than a commodity. We are afraid of different things, I believe, but it is the same wilderness and we are wanderers.
All we really have, on the way, is the promise of the benediction, that the Lord blesses us and keeps us, that God's face shines on us and looks upon us with favor, that God gives us, in some strange way -- peace. Peace in the wilderness. Peace for the wilderness. Peace even though we don't know where we are going. Peace for the meantime. Peace for mean times. I worry that these are very mean times. I'm sure she does too, but for different reasons.
For some reason, the benediction is enough. The words do what they are supposed to do. They give us what we need in the wilderness. Because we do not live by bread alone. We live by these words. In the wilderness. And we put them in our mouths, and they are sweet, and we live again another day.
It has been a tough year for her. She has been hospitalized three times already, one time on Easter weekend, when she fell and had to have many stitches. It has been a tough year, and we talked about that, and about their children, and their grandchildren, and their great-grandchildren. Their large, friendly dog sat at her feet.
At the end of the communion service, I gave the traditional benediction, the one I know by heart:
"The Lord bless you and keep you.
the Lord make his face shine on you and be gracious to you.
the Lord look upon you with favor,
and give you Peace."
Afterwards, she said to me, "You know, whenever I hear those words, I feel calm and comforted. I don't know what it is."
And I said, "it's the benediction. The words are doing what they are supposed to do."
I said, "God gave those words to the people of Israel when they were wandering in the wilderness. We still say them today."
And she said, "Well, it seems like we are wandering in the wilderness today too."
I remember that I replied, "But we are on our way to the promised land."
I suppose I thought it was my job to say it, to complete the circle, to say another word, a final word. We are on our way to the promised land, wherever that is. I am not sorry I said it, but it sounded a little too glib, like I was trying to make a dissonant chord resolve.
But she told the truth, that we are in the wilderness, that we are not there yet. She was the truer preacher, even though I suspect that her wilderness looks different than mine. She worries about the floods and the fires, and thinks perhaps that we are in the End Times. I worry about the floods and the fires, and I think that we are abusing the earth, and wonder when we will repent and treat it as God's sacred creation rather than a commodity. We are afraid of different things, I believe, but it is the same wilderness and we are wanderers.
All we really have, on the way, is the promise of the benediction, that the Lord blesses us and keeps us, that God's face shines on us and looks upon us with favor, that God gives us, in some strange way -- peace. Peace in the wilderness. Peace for the wilderness. Peace even though we don't know where we are going. Peace for the meantime. Peace for mean times. I worry that these are very mean times. I'm sure she does too, but for different reasons.
For some reason, the benediction is enough. The words do what they are supposed to do. They give us what we need in the wilderness. Because we do not live by bread alone. We live by these words. In the wilderness. And we put them in our mouths, and they are sweet, and we live again another day.
Saturday, April 29, 2017
Remembering after Five Years
I got a phone call yesterday. I didn't recognize the number, but the area code was from the Minneapolis area. I picked up the call and heard a voice I didn't recognize call me "Pastor Roth."
It was a warm voice. He asked me if I had remembered his mother and his brother. I remembered them both. I remembered his mother, a tiny woman who used to sit in the back row of our small Saturday night chapel service. I remember visiting her in the hospital a couple of times, and reminiscing with her and her family about the "old days" when her boys were in our church's release time and confirmation program. (For some reason, I remember a story about her bringing a casserole to a Wednesday night dinner and dropping the whole thing in the church parking lot.)
I had a small memorial service for his mother several years ago.
I remembered his brother too. I remembered how he called me a couple of years after his mother's funeral, and asked if I remembered him. He told me he had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. He had no current church affiliation, but would I visit him and talk with him, and give him communion? I did. I visited with him several times, talking about life and faith, the joys and regrets of his life.
I had a small memorial service for him a few years ago. It was 2012.
The man with the warm voice called to tell me that his father was in hospice, had just entered hospice that day. He did not know that I now live in another state, that I have lived here now for almost two years. I gave him the number of the church and the current pastor. He seemed to remember that his dad had a lay visitor, someone who came from the church to visit with his dad and give him communion. I was glad about that. I remembered helping to set that up.
A little while after I hung up, I thought a little more about our brief conversation. I thought about how the brother's funeral was in 2012. It is now 2017. This brother still has my cell phone number, after five years. And after five years, he called me up to tell me that his father is dying.
Now the lesson of this conversation might just be that I ought to get a new cell phone number. And that may be so. But I can't help thinking about the fact that the only way this man knew me was because of two funerals, and a couple of hospital visits. Yet, after five years, he called me up to let me know about his father. Perhaps I am the only pastor he knows. Perhaps those small actions, the words, the prayers, the presence -- meant something.
They say that the church is in decline. It surely is. They also say that faith is in decline. I believe that is true as well. But there are sparks, small signs, or openings, times when people feel brave enough to call someone they haven't spoken to in five years, and tell her that their father is dying. They want someone to say the words, to walk with them, to tell them that there is more to life than what they see, to help them through the mysteries of life and death. They think they want a pastor. But what they really need is the church. What they really need is the body of Christ, a sign of the resurrection.
As a pastor, I always feel privileged to be able to say that I remember. I remember your brother. I remember your mother. I remember your father too. Maybe that is part of my job. Maybe that is why someone will dare to call me after five years: they hope that I will remember.
But it is not just my job. It is the church's job, as well, to remember. It is the church's job to remember, to say the words, to walk with people, to tell them that there is more to life than what they see. We are the body of Christ. Signs of the resurrection.
It was a warm voice. He asked me if I had remembered his mother and his brother. I remembered them both. I remembered his mother, a tiny woman who used to sit in the back row of our small Saturday night chapel service. I remember visiting her in the hospital a couple of times, and reminiscing with her and her family about the "old days" when her boys were in our church's release time and confirmation program. (For some reason, I remember a story about her bringing a casserole to a Wednesday night dinner and dropping the whole thing in the church parking lot.)
I had a small memorial service for his mother several years ago.
I remembered his brother too. I remembered how he called me a couple of years after his mother's funeral, and asked if I remembered him. He told me he had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. He had no current church affiliation, but would I visit him and talk with him, and give him communion? I did. I visited with him several times, talking about life and faith, the joys and regrets of his life.
I had a small memorial service for him a few years ago. It was 2012.
The man with the warm voice called to tell me that his father was in hospice, had just entered hospice that day. He did not know that I now live in another state, that I have lived here now for almost two years. I gave him the number of the church and the current pastor. He seemed to remember that his dad had a lay visitor, someone who came from the church to visit with his dad and give him communion. I was glad about that. I remembered helping to set that up.
A little while after I hung up, I thought a little more about our brief conversation. I thought about how the brother's funeral was in 2012. It is now 2017. This brother still has my cell phone number, after five years. And after five years, he called me up to tell me that his father is dying.
Now the lesson of this conversation might just be that I ought to get a new cell phone number. And that may be so. But I can't help thinking about the fact that the only way this man knew me was because of two funerals, and a couple of hospital visits. Yet, after five years, he called me up to let me know about his father. Perhaps I am the only pastor he knows. Perhaps those small actions, the words, the prayers, the presence -- meant something.
They say that the church is in decline. It surely is. They also say that faith is in decline. I believe that is true as well. But there are sparks, small signs, or openings, times when people feel brave enough to call someone they haven't spoken to in five years, and tell her that their father is dying. They want someone to say the words, to walk with them, to tell them that there is more to life than what they see, to help them through the mysteries of life and death. They think they want a pastor. But what they really need is the church. What they really need is the body of Christ, a sign of the resurrection.
As a pastor, I always feel privileged to be able to say that I remember. I remember your brother. I remember your mother. I remember your father too. Maybe that is part of my job. Maybe that is why someone will dare to call me after five years: they hope that I will remember.
But it is not just my job. It is the church's job, as well, to remember. It is the church's job to remember, to say the words, to walk with people, to tell them that there is more to life than what they see. We are the body of Christ. Signs of the resurrection.
Wednesday, February 15, 2017
Who You Are
Recently I have been visiting a young woman who had a traumatic brain injury after a car accident.
Her mother called us, from Montana, asking if someone could go visit her daughter. She is living in a rehabilitation facility not far from my congregation, getting therapy and hoping to heal. It's a large, impressive campus, but until last month, I had no idea that it existed. Her mother called at least in part because her daughter wants to go to church. She was brought up Lutheran.
This young woman has short-term memory issues. It's difficult to remember what just happened, or what you just said to her. What is the name of my church? What time do we worship on Sunday? Even though I just told her those things, she doesn't remember.
Before her accident, she was a pre-med student. She remembers her studies well. She was a good student. She wants to go back and continue her studies. She still wants to be a doctor. Her father even told her, there must be a reason that you survived the accident. There must be something that God wants you to do.
She is sure that God wants her to be a doctor. That is who she is. It is frustrating not to be able to get going.
When I read the end verses of the gospel reading for this week, I can't help thinking about her. "Be Perfect, as your Heavenly Father is Perfect." There are lots of ways to think about being perfect. I was an oldest child, so I know a lot of them.
Get a perfect score on the test.
Be perfectly well-mannered.
Be perfectly attractive.
Never make a mistake.
I don't know this young woman well, but I wonder if she learned some of these ways of being perfect. You have to be pretty over-achieving to be a doctor. You have to be pretty close to perfect.
"Be perfect, as you heavenly father is perfect." Some of us spend our whole lives striving for it, and also spend our whole lives believing we are not good enough.
But what if this is what it means to be perfect: To be who you are, just as God is perfectly who God is. We are all broken, but we are also becoming who God wants us to be. We are all broken, but we all have a purpose, a reason we are here. And to trust that is to be perfect.
Maybe it is to be a doctor. But maybe it is just to be You, in all parts of your life, and to strive to be more and more You through all of your life.
This young woman wants more than anything to come to church. She doesn't remember everything, but she remembers that she is a child of God. It is a start.
Her mother called us, from Montana, asking if someone could go visit her daughter. She is living in a rehabilitation facility not far from my congregation, getting therapy and hoping to heal. It's a large, impressive campus, but until last month, I had no idea that it existed. Her mother called at least in part because her daughter wants to go to church. She was brought up Lutheran.
This young woman has short-term memory issues. It's difficult to remember what just happened, or what you just said to her. What is the name of my church? What time do we worship on Sunday? Even though I just told her those things, she doesn't remember.
Before her accident, she was a pre-med student. She remembers her studies well. She was a good student. She wants to go back and continue her studies. She still wants to be a doctor. Her father even told her, there must be a reason that you survived the accident. There must be something that God wants you to do.
She is sure that God wants her to be a doctor. That is who she is. It is frustrating not to be able to get going.
When I read the end verses of the gospel reading for this week, I can't help thinking about her. "Be Perfect, as your Heavenly Father is Perfect." There are lots of ways to think about being perfect. I was an oldest child, so I know a lot of them.
Get a perfect score on the test.
Be perfectly well-mannered.
Be perfectly attractive.
Never make a mistake.
I don't know this young woman well, but I wonder if she learned some of these ways of being perfect. You have to be pretty over-achieving to be a doctor. You have to be pretty close to perfect.
"Be perfect, as you heavenly father is perfect." Some of us spend our whole lives striving for it, and also spend our whole lives believing we are not good enough.
But what if this is what it means to be perfect: To be who you are, just as God is perfectly who God is. We are all broken, but we are also becoming who God wants us to be. We are all broken, but we all have a purpose, a reason we are here. And to trust that is to be perfect.
Maybe it is to be a doctor. But maybe it is just to be You, in all parts of your life, and to strive to be more and more You through all of your life.
This young woman wants more than anything to come to church. She doesn't remember everything, but she remembers that she is a child of God. It is a start.
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
What to Preach
To tell the truth, I was looking forward to preaching about Mary and Martha last weekend. Just plain old unvarnished Mary and Martha and Jesus, five small verses that I could turn over in the palm of my hand, ruminate over, shine the light on.
I was looking forward to getting back to the gospel stories after six weeks in Galatians, even though the last week in Galatians was pretty much pre-empted by the shootings in Baton Rouge, Minnesota and Dallas. Who is my neighbor? Whose burdens am I required to bear? Those are uncomfortable questions, but nobody said that preaching should be comfortable.
But this week seemed like the promise of the gospel came out of a different kind of discomfort. This short story of Martha and Mary and Jesus spoke to me of the importance of hospitality, and of sitting and listening: listening to God and listening to our neighbor. Coincidentally (or perhaps not coincidentally), our congregation is embarking on a mission initiative that involves listening to God and to our neighbors. And the discipline of this kind of listening will be a challenging and will make us uncomfortable and will also yield a blessing.
So, Listen. It seemed clear that this was what to preach this last weekend in my congregation. Listening is the beginning of mission. To listen is to put the other person in the center, not us. It is a holy activity.
And then there was violence in Nice, and an attempted coup in Turkey. Sunday morning, while we were in worship, three police officers were killed in Baton Rouge.
And I had this sermon which wasn't wrong, but somehow seemed like flecks of dust tossed into the air.
Listen.
Was that all I had? Had I made the wrong decision? Had I preached the wrong thing?
All I know is that I am back at it again, reading the scriptures, asking questions, imagining the people in my congregation, and especially a young man who will be confirmed on Sunday. I am looking out at the world, and wondering what to say.
Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
I was looking forward to getting back to the gospel stories after six weeks in Galatians, even though the last week in Galatians was pretty much pre-empted by the shootings in Baton Rouge, Minnesota and Dallas. Who is my neighbor? Whose burdens am I required to bear? Those are uncomfortable questions, but nobody said that preaching should be comfortable.
But this week seemed like the promise of the gospel came out of a different kind of discomfort. This short story of Martha and Mary and Jesus spoke to me of the importance of hospitality, and of sitting and listening: listening to God and listening to our neighbor. Coincidentally (or perhaps not coincidentally), our congregation is embarking on a mission initiative that involves listening to God and to our neighbors. And the discipline of this kind of listening will be a challenging and will make us uncomfortable and will also yield a blessing.
So, Listen. It seemed clear that this was what to preach this last weekend in my congregation. Listening is the beginning of mission. To listen is to put the other person in the center, not us. It is a holy activity.
And then there was violence in Nice, and an attempted coup in Turkey. Sunday morning, while we were in worship, three police officers were killed in Baton Rouge.
And I had this sermon which wasn't wrong, but somehow seemed like flecks of dust tossed into the air.
Listen.
Was that all I had? Had I made the wrong decision? Had I preached the wrong thing?
All I know is that I am back at it again, reading the scriptures, asking questions, imagining the people in my congregation, and especially a young man who will be confirmed on Sunday. I am looking out at the world, and wondering what to say.
Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Sunday, October 4, 2015
A Sin Problem
"We Don't Have a Gun Problem. We have a Sin Problem."
I saw this on social media the other day, in reference, I am sure, to the shooting at the community college in Umqua, Oregon.
We have a Sin Problem.
Well.
I'm a pastor. It's hard to argue with that. We do have a sin problem. We also have a gun problem, which is not to say that I believe that all that we have to do is get rid of all of the guns, if we could even do that. But yes, we have a sin problem, and yes, I also think that we have a gun problem as well, which is to say, that our sin problem has, at least in part, to do with guns.
Since sin is one of my specialties, let's talk about the sin problem. I am not sure, but I suspect that when some people say "we have a sin problem" (rather than a gun problem), they are talking about the individuals who do evil with guns, that the problem is not with guns themselves, but guns in the hands of evil, disturbed people. It is a problem of individual sin.
But what do you do about that? There have always been sinners; there will always be sinners. The increase in these random acts of violence reveal something else about us, not just as individuals, but as a culture.
And then there is our inability to take some sort of action -- not to eliminate evil -- we can never totally eliminate evil. But our inability to do something, anything, to take any steps, to even talk about what might work, to protect the vulnerable against acts of evil -- this also is sin.
We have a sin problem.
My fear is that somehow saying this will seem like enough, that someone will say, "we have a sin problem" and "let's pray about it", without realizing that the next step, after praying about it, might be to listen, really listen to what God wants us to do about it. The next step is to repent, to change our mind, to change our ways, to change ANYTHING.
We have a sin problem.
I saw this on social media the other day, in reference, I am sure, to the shooting at the community college in Umqua, Oregon.
We have a Sin Problem.
Well.
I'm a pastor. It's hard to argue with that. We do have a sin problem. We also have a gun problem, which is not to say that I believe that all that we have to do is get rid of all of the guns, if we could even do that. But yes, we have a sin problem, and yes, I also think that we have a gun problem as well, which is to say, that our sin problem has, at least in part, to do with guns.
Since sin is one of my specialties, let's talk about the sin problem. I am not sure, but I suspect that when some people say "we have a sin problem" (rather than a gun problem), they are talking about the individuals who do evil with guns, that the problem is not with guns themselves, but guns in the hands of evil, disturbed people. It is a problem of individual sin.
But what do you do about that? There have always been sinners; there will always be sinners. The increase in these random acts of violence reveal something else about us, not just as individuals, but as a culture.
And then there is our inability to take some sort of action -- not to eliminate evil -- we can never totally eliminate evil. But our inability to do something, anything, to take any steps, to even talk about what might work, to protect the vulnerable against acts of evil -- this also is sin.
We have a sin problem.
My fear is that somehow saying this will seem like enough, that someone will say, "we have a sin problem" and "let's pray about it", without realizing that the next step, after praying about it, might be to listen, really listen to what God wants us to do about it. The next step is to repent, to change our mind, to change our ways, to change ANYTHING.
We have a sin problem.
Monday, August 31, 2015
My First Funeral
I had my first funeral here about a week ago, which is not the same as my first funeral. I had my first funeral here, and for some reason, it brought back to me the memory of my very first funeral, when I was a newly-ordained and installed pastor in rural South Dakota.
I remember that I was installed on a Sunday morning in worship, and that there was this big potluck afterwards, and some of my family had come to the celebration. We worshipped and ate and opened presents from the congregation, and my family all went home. The next morning I went to the nearby town to open a checking account, and I stopped in at the hospital because I had heard about a parish member who was gravely ill. I stopped in to see him and to introduce myself. One of his granddaughters were there. I think we had a brief prayer.
Early the next morning I got a call from the funeral director. I remember being a little confused. I wasn't used to anybody calling me "Reverend" yet. I remember trying to find my way to the funeral home and later to meet his family. I was still finding my way around the community, the gravel roads, the farms, the kitchen tables, and the people.
Darwin wasn't a farmer, someone from the church told me, as if that explained something, or anything. To this day I can't remember what he did for a living, but I remember this: he wasn't a farmer, but he was a gardener. He grew food, but not for a living. He did it for love.
He grew food, and he grew a family. That's what I remember. And I remember that I had my first funeral at the little country church before I had given a Sunday sermon anywhere, and the whole community came out to hear "the new preacher" and stayed for lunch afterwards. I remember that a couple from the congregation sang duets, and I remember that I took my preaching text from John 15 -- about God the gardener, and Jesus the vine, and and what it means to die believing that our lives bear fruit. It's not in the list of the most common funeral texts, and I don't know where I got the idea to preach on it except for the fact that Darwin was a gardener.
I don't remember every funeral I preached, but for some reason I remembered that one. On a Friday morning when I had been a pastor for all of five days, I had my first funeral, for a gardener named Darwin. Then I went home and fussed about what I was going to preach about on Sunday, as if I had any idea.
It was so long ago.
So I had my first funeral here about a week ago, for a woman I had not had the chance to meet, a woman named Odessa. I am still finding my way around here. The landscape is different; there are no gravel roads, but there are winding ones. But there are still kitchen tables, and people to meet, and lives that are hidden still bear fruit.
Odessa was not a farmer, or a gardener, either. She married and worked at ordinary jobs, some of them hard. She bore two children and did beautiful handwork, and her life was hidden with Christ in God.
I didn't think to preach on John 15 this time. I'm not sure why. It still applies. Jesus is the vine. We are the branches. We till our little patch, and God works in us in mysterious ways, until the end of time.
I remember that I was installed on a Sunday morning in worship, and that there was this big potluck afterwards, and some of my family had come to the celebration. We worshipped and ate and opened presents from the congregation, and my family all went home. The next morning I went to the nearby town to open a checking account, and I stopped in at the hospital because I had heard about a parish member who was gravely ill. I stopped in to see him and to introduce myself. One of his granddaughters were there. I think we had a brief prayer.
Early the next morning I got a call from the funeral director. I remember being a little confused. I wasn't used to anybody calling me "Reverend" yet. I remember trying to find my way to the funeral home and later to meet his family. I was still finding my way around the community, the gravel roads, the farms, the kitchen tables, and the people.
Darwin wasn't a farmer, someone from the church told me, as if that explained something, or anything. To this day I can't remember what he did for a living, but I remember this: he wasn't a farmer, but he was a gardener. He grew food, but not for a living. He did it for love.
He grew food, and he grew a family. That's what I remember. And I remember that I had my first funeral at the little country church before I had given a Sunday sermon anywhere, and the whole community came out to hear "the new preacher" and stayed for lunch afterwards. I remember that a couple from the congregation sang duets, and I remember that I took my preaching text from John 15 -- about God the gardener, and Jesus the vine, and and what it means to die believing that our lives bear fruit. It's not in the list of the most common funeral texts, and I don't know where I got the idea to preach on it except for the fact that Darwin was a gardener.
I don't remember every funeral I preached, but for some reason I remembered that one. On a Friday morning when I had been a pastor for all of five days, I had my first funeral, for a gardener named Darwin. Then I went home and fussed about what I was going to preach about on Sunday, as if I had any idea.
It was so long ago.
So I had my first funeral here about a week ago, for a woman I had not had the chance to meet, a woman named Odessa. I am still finding my way around here. The landscape is different; there are no gravel roads, but there are winding ones. But there are still kitchen tables, and people to meet, and lives that are hidden still bear fruit.
Odessa was not a farmer, or a gardener, either. She married and worked at ordinary jobs, some of them hard. She bore two children and did beautiful handwork, and her life was hidden with Christ in God.
I didn't think to preach on John 15 this time. I'm not sure why. It still applies. Jesus is the vine. We are the branches. We till our little patch, and God works in us in mysterious ways, until the end of time.
Thursday, March 19, 2015
To Visit Or Not to Visit
Back in the day, the Every Member Visit was a thing pastors did. I remember, even when I was on internship, being asked by more than one potential pastoral mentor: "Are you regularly visiting your members in their homes or at the places where they work?" I remember one seasoned pastor giving me the advice that, if I visited people regularly during the week, I would be more likely to see them in church on Sunday. Another reason to visit, I was told, was because we who do this "odd" work of pastoring need to know how the regular people who come to our churches really live, what are their daily struggles, which questions animate their lives.
Lately though, the Every Member Visit has become an object of scorn. For one thing, it is impossible, if you have a congregation of any size at all. And if you want to become a congregation of any more size, you are really setting yourself up for failure. The Every Member Visit also sounds much like a chaplaincy ministry: it is "taking care of members" rather than reaching out to care for the world; it is inward rather than outwardly focused. There is so much wrong with the Every Member Visit, not the least of which is that it is focussed on "members".
Lately, though, I am wondering if the question is not whether or not to visit (and perhaps the "every member" prefix requirement out to go) but what kind of visits we ought to make.
What if we practiced a strategic kind of visiting, both among those inside and those outside our churches, aimed at hearing stories, and learning the passions and concerns, strengths, hopes and fears of those who worship with us? What if we visited in order to learn what people's gifts were, where they came from, and how they might fit into the mission of God? What if we visited to learn the capacity of our congregation and the needs of our community? What if we visited in order to get a better of idea of what God wants us to do, and how we could possibly do it?
What if we believed that the people who come to our churches are partners with us in the gospel? What kind of visiting would we do then?
Lately though, the Every Member Visit has become an object of scorn. For one thing, it is impossible, if you have a congregation of any size at all. And if you want to become a congregation of any more size, you are really setting yourself up for failure. The Every Member Visit also sounds much like a chaplaincy ministry: it is "taking care of members" rather than reaching out to care for the world; it is inward rather than outwardly focused. There is so much wrong with the Every Member Visit, not the least of which is that it is focussed on "members".
Lately, though, I am wondering if the question is not whether or not to visit (and perhaps the "every member" prefix requirement out to go) but what kind of visits we ought to make.
What if we practiced a strategic kind of visiting, both among those inside and those outside our churches, aimed at hearing stories, and learning the passions and concerns, strengths, hopes and fears of those who worship with us? What if we visited in order to learn what people's gifts were, where they came from, and how they might fit into the mission of God? What if we visited to learn the capacity of our congregation and the needs of our community? What if we visited in order to get a better of idea of what God wants us to do, and how we could possibly do it?
What if we believed that the people who come to our churches are partners with us in the gospel? What kind of visiting would we do then?
Friday, December 26, 2014
Lowly
"Do you want me to come right away?"
"Can you?"
I had a relaxing day after Christmas planned. I had a couple of phone calls to make (one about a baptism), and I had to finish a Sunday-after-Christmas sermon. That was all I had planned.
But then the call came in, about a man from our congregation. One of his relatives called to let me know that he had just put himself in hospice care. She thought he would like to have communion.
In my mind I thought that I could probably stop over the next morning, but when I called their apartment and spoke to his wife, she said that he was not eating anything, and that I should not bring communion. It was then that I blurted out, "Do you want me to come right away?"
He was up in a chair when I arrived, looking pale but smiling warmly. We started to catch up about his life and his illness, and how hospice was taking such good care of him. When I mentioned how I had rushed out of church without my communion kit, he seemed disappointed, and his daughter (who was also visiting) said that she could probably find a little wine and some small pieces of cracker.
While communion preparation was underway in the kitchen, I visited with the man and his wife. I asked him his favorite Bible verse; John 3:16 was what he said. It was a verse he thought of when he spent two years as a Mission Builder. He was proud of the work he had done helping build, or remodel three churches, one in Albuquerque, one in Nebraska, and one in Montana. "We spent two years living in trailers," his wife said.
"What did you do?" I asked him.
"I was the foreman."
The bread and the wine were ready, so confessed our sins and began the communion service.
"What Scripture would you like me to read? Would you like to hear the Christmas story?"
His daughter thought that was a fine idea. She remembered how he read the Christmas story for the whole family, every year. They read the Christmas story as the family grew, with children and grandchildren tumbling through their home.
So on the second day of Christmas, we read the Christmas story. I asked them which was their favorite part of the story. "I like the shepherds out in the field," he said. "Of course, an old farmer," his daughter said. "I like the angel," his wife said. A long time ago, she got to be be the angel in a church pageant. She got to stand in the pulpit, that holy place, and say the words, "Behold, I bring you good news of great joy!" She has never forgotten it. His daughter said she liked the angels singing. His son-in-law said, "I like all of it." Then we talked and we noticed the part about the manger, how Jesus was laid in a manger. And he said,
"He had to be lowly. He had to be the lowliest, to be one of the common, the ordinary. He couldn't be born in a palace, in a rich place. He had to be lowly, to be the lowliest, so that he could reach all of us."
Before we took communion, I asked if there was anything they wanted to pray for.
His daughter started to speak, but then closed her eyes and shook her head. He said, "When I think about my life, my future, I would like to be able to share my faith with my children and grandchildren one more time."
We shared the wine, the bread, the benediction.
I did not finish my sermon.
But I have this: Lowly. He had to be lowly. He had to be the lowliest, to reach all of us.
"Can you?"
I had a relaxing day after Christmas planned. I had a couple of phone calls to make (one about a baptism), and I had to finish a Sunday-after-Christmas sermon. That was all I had planned.
But then the call came in, about a man from our congregation. One of his relatives called to let me know that he had just put himself in hospice care. She thought he would like to have communion.
In my mind I thought that I could probably stop over the next morning, but when I called their apartment and spoke to his wife, she said that he was not eating anything, and that I should not bring communion. It was then that I blurted out, "Do you want me to come right away?"
He was up in a chair when I arrived, looking pale but smiling warmly. We started to catch up about his life and his illness, and how hospice was taking such good care of him. When I mentioned how I had rushed out of church without my communion kit, he seemed disappointed, and his daughter (who was also visiting) said that she could probably find a little wine and some small pieces of cracker.
While communion preparation was underway in the kitchen, I visited with the man and his wife. I asked him his favorite Bible verse; John 3:16 was what he said. It was a verse he thought of when he spent two years as a Mission Builder. He was proud of the work he had done helping build, or remodel three churches, one in Albuquerque, one in Nebraska, and one in Montana. "We spent two years living in trailers," his wife said.
"What did you do?" I asked him.
"I was the foreman."
The bread and the wine were ready, so confessed our sins and began the communion service.
"What Scripture would you like me to read? Would you like to hear the Christmas story?"
His daughter thought that was a fine idea. She remembered how he read the Christmas story for the whole family, every year. They read the Christmas story as the family grew, with children and grandchildren tumbling through their home.
So on the second day of Christmas, we read the Christmas story. I asked them which was their favorite part of the story. "I like the shepherds out in the field," he said. "Of course, an old farmer," his daughter said. "I like the angel," his wife said. A long time ago, she got to be be the angel in a church pageant. She got to stand in the pulpit, that holy place, and say the words, "Behold, I bring you good news of great joy!" She has never forgotten it. His daughter said she liked the angels singing. His son-in-law said, "I like all of it." Then we talked and we noticed the part about the manger, how Jesus was laid in a manger. And he said,
"He had to be lowly. He had to be the lowliest, to be one of the common, the ordinary. He couldn't be born in a palace, in a rich place. He had to be lowly, to be the lowliest, so that he could reach all of us."
Before we took communion, I asked if there was anything they wanted to pray for.
His daughter started to speak, but then closed her eyes and shook her head. He said, "When I think about my life, my future, I would like to be able to share my faith with my children and grandchildren one more time."
We shared the wine, the bread, the benediction.
I did not finish my sermon.
But I have this: Lowly. He had to be lowly. He had to be the lowliest, to reach all of us.
Monday, August 11, 2014
If I Don't Write it Down, I Might Forget
Not long after I arrived at this current congregation many years ago, we began to get a phone call every Saturday afternoon. The caller always asked who was preaching that weekend.
The Saturday receptionist started getting curious, so the phone calls got a little longer. The caller was an elderly gentleman who usually came to the early service on Sunday morning. He wanted to know if the associate pastor was preaching. He liked the preaching of the associate pastor, and would make sure to come she was the one who was preaching.
We had a little joke about it. The receptionist called him my "fan." It is nice to have a fan, I decided. If I was in the office when he called, sometimes she would transfer the call back to me. When I saw him on Sunday morning, I would say hello to him and ask him how he was doing. He had a round face and thick glasses and a great smile. He looked like an elderly scholar.
I know that he had a family, because he talked about them, but I didn't know them. I never met them. He came to church by myself. There were a few other widowers who liked to come to the early service. They always sat together.
I don't remember his name any more.
At some point, the Saturday afternoon calls stopped.
We did a little checking, and found out that he was in a nursing home nearby. We put him on our shut-in list. I asked to visit him, but we had a seminary intern at the time, and the other pastor felt that it was better for the seminary intern to be the regular visitor, since he made other visits at the same nursing home.
Even so, I did stop by on occasion, especially when I was leading a church service at the facility. He seemed to move around a lot in the nursing home. Or, maybe I just didn't visit as often as I should have.
One day, when I came into his room to visit with him, he looked at me over his thick glasses and said, "Who are you?"
It broke my heart, just a little.
And then, one day, I went to visit him and he wasn't there. He had died.
No one called us.
I don't remember his name any more.
I'm writing this so that I don't forget. And if I do, maybe someone else will tell the story.
The Saturday receptionist started getting curious, so the phone calls got a little longer. The caller was an elderly gentleman who usually came to the early service on Sunday morning. He wanted to know if the associate pastor was preaching. He liked the preaching of the associate pastor, and would make sure to come she was the one who was preaching.
We had a little joke about it. The receptionist called him my "fan." It is nice to have a fan, I decided. If I was in the office when he called, sometimes she would transfer the call back to me. When I saw him on Sunday morning, I would say hello to him and ask him how he was doing. He had a round face and thick glasses and a great smile. He looked like an elderly scholar.
I know that he had a family, because he talked about them, but I didn't know them. I never met them. He came to church by myself. There were a few other widowers who liked to come to the early service. They always sat together.
I don't remember his name any more.
At some point, the Saturday afternoon calls stopped.
We did a little checking, and found out that he was in a nursing home nearby. We put him on our shut-in list. I asked to visit him, but we had a seminary intern at the time, and the other pastor felt that it was better for the seminary intern to be the regular visitor, since he made other visits at the same nursing home.
Even so, I did stop by on occasion, especially when I was leading a church service at the facility. He seemed to move around a lot in the nursing home. Or, maybe I just didn't visit as often as I should have.
One day, when I came into his room to visit with him, he looked at me over his thick glasses and said, "Who are you?"
It broke my heart, just a little.
And then, one day, I went to visit him and he wasn't there. He had died.
No one called us.
I don't remember his name any more.
I'm writing this so that I don't forget. And if I do, maybe someone else will tell the story.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
What if we said, "Jesus rose for you" instead of "Jesus died for you"?
Maybe it was because it is Easter. Maybe that's why I wrote it. It is still Easter, you know, and we are still hearing these resurrection stories. Today, at our early Matins service, I told the one about Jesus appearing to the disciples, and breathing on them, and later to Thomas, and letting him touch his hands and his side.
Because it is still Easter, when I went to visit Oscar at the nursing home, I took two Sunday bulletins with me, which contained the very same gospel story. I took the two bulletins because it seemed like a good thing to do, and because Oscar is deaf. I mostly converse with him by using his white board, a marker and eraser. We do pretty well that way.
After visiting for awhile, finding out that he is moving to another care facility (which is happy about), and that it's no fun to get old, I asked him if he wanted to have communion. He said yes. We said the confession together, and then I gave him the bulletin so that we could read a portion of the gospel reading, the resurrection story from John, just the part where Jesus came into the room and said, "Peace be with you."
Afterwards, I wrote the main points on Oscar's white board: "Jesus is with us. He rose from the dead for us, to give us life and forgiveness. Because he loves us."
Maybe it was because it is Easter. Maybe that's why I wrote those words, "Jesus rose for you". And after I wrote them I just looked at them for a long time, something settling and unsettling in my head, but not just in my head. But maybe that was because it is Easter.
Or maybe it was because the familiar phrase "Jesus died for you" was stuck in my mind, had been stuck in my mind ever since that morning, ever since Matins.
Actually, it was right before Matins. I was getting ready for the service, finding my place in the book, turning on the microphone. A couple of people were early, one 90 year old woman who always sits near the front. She caught me as I was going down the aisle, showed me her iPhone (do not ever underestimate or stereotype the 90 year olds in your congregation). A young woman she knew had posted this status update: " I wonder if the history of christianity would've turned out differently if our central image of it was Jesus healing the sick and feeding the hungry rather than being violently tortured to death (because God loves you!)"
She seemed upset that her young friend had said something so cynical. I reminded her of what Sarah Palin had said recently about baptizing terrorists by torturing them. I said that some people find it hard to understand how God torturing God's only Son could have anything to do with love.
Here's what I believe. God didn't kill Jesus. And God certainly didn't kill Jesus because God couldn't forgive us without first extracting his pound of flesh. After all, what did Jesus do? He just went around giving away forgiveness, mercy, food, healing. He just went around loving people, eating with them, setting them free. No, Jesus died because human beings put him to death, because human beings were threatened and scandalized by him, religiously and politically. And when he died, even the people who loved him, abandoned him. Even the people who loved him, betrayed him. Even the people who loved him, denied him.
But he rose. He rose from the dead. He came back. And when he came back, did he come back vowing revenge? Did he come back to even the score? Did he come back to make sure that his enemies paid for what they had done, that his friends atoned for their failings?
No, he rose for us, to be reconciled to us. He rose to make friends out of enemies, create life out of death, build a future out of dead ends and regrets.
What if we said, "Jesus rose for you?" instead of 'Jesus died for you"? Because he loves you.
Because it is still Easter, when I went to visit Oscar at the nursing home, I took two Sunday bulletins with me, which contained the very same gospel story. I took the two bulletins because it seemed like a good thing to do, and because Oscar is deaf. I mostly converse with him by using his white board, a marker and eraser. We do pretty well that way.
Afterwards, I wrote the main points on Oscar's white board: "Jesus is with us. He rose from the dead for us, to give us life and forgiveness. Because he loves us."
Maybe it was because it is Easter. Maybe that's why I wrote those words, "Jesus rose for you". And after I wrote them I just looked at them for a long time, something settling and unsettling in my head, but not just in my head. But maybe that was because it is Easter.
Or maybe it was because the familiar phrase "Jesus died for you" was stuck in my mind, had been stuck in my mind ever since that morning, ever since Matins.
Actually, it was right before Matins. I was getting ready for the service, finding my place in the book, turning on the microphone. A couple of people were early, one 90 year old woman who always sits near the front. She caught me as I was going down the aisle, showed me her iPhone (do not ever underestimate or stereotype the 90 year olds in your congregation). A young woman she knew had posted this status update: " I wonder if the history of christianity would've turned out differently if our central image of it was Jesus healing the sick and feeding the hungry rather than being violently tortured to death (because God loves you!)"
She seemed upset that her young friend had said something so cynical. I reminded her of what Sarah Palin had said recently about baptizing terrorists by torturing them. I said that some people find it hard to understand how God torturing God's only Son could have anything to do with love.
Here's what I believe. God didn't kill Jesus. And God certainly didn't kill Jesus because God couldn't forgive us without first extracting his pound of flesh. After all, what did Jesus do? He just went around giving away forgiveness, mercy, food, healing. He just went around loving people, eating with them, setting them free. No, Jesus died because human beings put him to death, because human beings were threatened and scandalized by him, religiously and politically. And when he died, even the people who loved him, abandoned him. Even the people who loved him, betrayed him. Even the people who loved him, denied him.
But he rose. He rose from the dead. He came back. And when he came back, did he come back vowing revenge? Did he come back to even the score? Did he come back to make sure that his enemies paid for what they had done, that his friends atoned for their failings?
No, he rose for us, to be reconciled to us. He rose to make friends out of enemies, create life out of death, build a future out of dead ends and regrets.
What if we said, "Jesus rose for you?" instead of 'Jesus died for you"? Because he loves you.
Monday, February 24, 2014
Priests, Multiplied
On Saturday morning, we had our first training session for Homebound Ministry at my congregation. I have to tell you, that even though I have been at this congregation for a long time, I keep being surprised by the variety of gifts I keep discovering. Our team leader, for example, is a social worker who deals with Alzheimers; another presenter is a psychologist who works with the Veterans Administration. Another of our leaders was trained as an elementary school teacher.
It was an exceptional morning, well-organized and planned, and full of knowledge and wisdom.
But it wasn't just the leaders who provided the wisdom.
For the past few years, there have been a handful of lay people who have already been going out, giving communion to shut-ins. We want to expand this ministry so that it includes more than just communion ministry. We also want to expand the number of communion ministers.
Among the participants on Saturday morning were some of those visitors.
There are two women who have been working as a team for the past couple of years. One of them drives; the other one doesn't feel comfortable driving, but she leads the communion service. They actually came to me and told me that they wanted to visit a friend of theirs who was a member of the congregation and who was experiencing memory loss. Since it was a transition time in the congregation and we were short-staffed, I was glad to say yes. Later on, they added one more friend to their list of visits.
On Saturday, during the presentations, we left time for questions and sharing.
One of the two women spoke up about their visits. She told me of the privilege of visiting their friends, and how one of them even questioned her, "why are you doing this?" She answered, "Because you are my friend." She told us now that one of their friends now was not able to receive the sacrament in the same way as she had before. "So now we just dip the tiniest bit of the wafer in the wine, and put it on her tongue."
She said it with such tenderness and grace, and I thought, "Who says that this woman is not a pastor?"
Though I have always believed fervently in the priesthood of all believers, I confess that I used to reserve the word "pastor" for the ordained. But why? After all, the priesthood of all believers means that we are all priests to one another, feeding, reflecting, mediating the presence of Christ for one another.
There are many homebound people in my congregation. There are also grieving people, lonely people, wondering people, dying people.
As it turns out, there are many pastors too. More than I ever knew.
It was an exceptional morning, well-organized and planned, and full of knowledge and wisdom.
But it wasn't just the leaders who provided the wisdom.
For the past few years, there have been a handful of lay people who have already been going out, giving communion to shut-ins. We want to expand this ministry so that it includes more than just communion ministry. We also want to expand the number of communion ministers.
Among the participants on Saturday morning were some of those visitors.
There are two women who have been working as a team for the past couple of years. One of them drives; the other one doesn't feel comfortable driving, but she leads the communion service. They actually came to me and told me that they wanted to visit a friend of theirs who was a member of the congregation and who was experiencing memory loss. Since it was a transition time in the congregation and we were short-staffed, I was glad to say yes. Later on, they added one more friend to their list of visits.
On Saturday, during the presentations, we left time for questions and sharing.
One of the two women spoke up about their visits. She told me of the privilege of visiting their friends, and how one of them even questioned her, "why are you doing this?" She answered, "Because you are my friend." She told us now that one of their friends now was not able to receive the sacrament in the same way as she had before. "So now we just dip the tiniest bit of the wafer in the wine, and put it on her tongue."
She said it with such tenderness and grace, and I thought, "Who says that this woman is not a pastor?"
Though I have always believed fervently in the priesthood of all believers, I confess that I used to reserve the word "pastor" for the ordained. But why? After all, the priesthood of all believers means that we are all priests to one another, feeding, reflecting, mediating the presence of Christ for one another.
There are many homebound people in my congregation. There are also grieving people, lonely people, wondering people, dying people.
As it turns out, there are many pastors too. More than I ever knew.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Beautiful and Terrible
A week ago on Sunday afternoon, as the shadows lengthened and the sun went down, my husband and I drove over to a spot downtown along the Mississippi River. We got out and walked over the Stone Arch Bridge, stopping to watch a bridal party taking pictures, children peering over the railing, young people riding bikes. When we got to the other side of the bridge, there was a group of children standing with a man and a woman who were dressed like clowns. They were teaching the children how to blow gi-normous bubbles.
We stood and watched, delighted, for a few moments. But before we turned to walk back across the bridge, I walked down some wooden steps to get a better view of the river and the bridge above. It was not quite sunset, and the view was beautiful.
I thought back to earlier that afternoon. After worship that morning I had stopped in at the Intensive Care Unit of one of our local hospitals. I sat for a little while with a family as they waited for good news about their daughter and sister. They were not getting very much good news, and they grasped every sliver they could find, and held on tight. We prayed our silent prayers and hoped against hope. It was a grave place, full of love and pain.
I thought back a little further to the news I had gotten on Friday, news that a good friend of mine from seminary days had died. She was just 47, with two young children and a heart-broken husband. I grieved the loss, and also the fact that I had not kept in contact with her over the years since seminary, even though we had been faithful friends through those years of study. When I saw her picture on caring bridge, I saw first the familiar, beautiful smile that lit up every room she entered. How could she be dead? I still couldn't believe it.
"Here is the world," Frederick Buechner once said. "Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid."
As I walked over the bridge, as I watched the children playing, as I felt the setting sun on the river, it was easy to believe that God was in this place.
But God is in the Intensive Care Unit, too, though often impossible to see. I don't say it because I can feel the warmth on the back of my neck, or because I got the news I wanted to hear. I just hold on to it. God is in the Intensive Care Unit, holding on to all of us.
One of the things they said of my friend from seminary, the one with the beautiful smile, the one who died too young, was that she was never afraid.
Beautiful and terrible. Don't be afraid.
We stood and watched, delighted, for a few moments. But before we turned to walk back across the bridge, I walked down some wooden steps to get a better view of the river and the bridge above. It was not quite sunset, and the view was beautiful.
I thought back to earlier that afternoon. After worship that morning I had stopped in at the Intensive Care Unit of one of our local hospitals. I sat for a little while with a family as they waited for good news about their daughter and sister. They were not getting very much good news, and they grasped every sliver they could find, and held on tight. We prayed our silent prayers and hoped against hope. It was a grave place, full of love and pain.
I thought back a little further to the news I had gotten on Friday, news that a good friend of mine from seminary days had died. She was just 47, with two young children and a heart-broken husband. I grieved the loss, and also the fact that I had not kept in contact with her over the years since seminary, even though we had been faithful friends through those years of study. When I saw her picture on caring bridge, I saw first the familiar, beautiful smile that lit up every room she entered. How could she be dead? I still couldn't believe it."Here is the world," Frederick Buechner once said. "Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid."
As I walked over the bridge, as I watched the children playing, as I felt the setting sun on the river, it was easy to believe that God was in this place.
But God is in the Intensive Care Unit, too, though often impossible to see. I don't say it because I can feel the warmth on the back of my neck, or because I got the news I wanted to hear. I just hold on to it. God is in the Intensive Care Unit, holding on to all of us.
One of the things they said of my friend from seminary, the one with the beautiful smile, the one who died too young, was that she was never afraid.
Beautiful and terrible. Don't be afraid.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
The Gift of Gray Hairs
It happened again. A young family visited our congregation this past Sunday. They are looking for a church. They liked the worship service. They liked the kneelers (this is sort of unusual for a Lutheran church; we have had kneelers since the 1960s); they liked the sermon. But as they looked around, they made the observation, "There are an awful lot of gray heads out there."
It's true. There's no way you can get around it. There are an awful lot of gray heads in our congregation. This is even more true in the summer when there are no Sunday School classes, and a fair number of our young families are sporadic in their attendance, for whatever reason. But, even in the fall, when the children and their families return, there are still an awful lot of gray heads in our congregation.
Back in the late 1950s and 1960s, when this church began, it was a much larger congregation than it is now. Back then, there were a thousand children in Sunday School (they say), and the congregation numbered about 3,000. The schools were overflowing as well; it was a young community with many families. The demographics of the community have changed since then, so, even with a steady (if smaller) stream of young families, the community, and the congregation skews older.
There's nothing we can do about it.
Well, there is one thing we can do:
We can start seeing those gray heads as a gift, and as a strength.
It already happens, on occasion. There is a teenage young woman who sits at worship every Sunday with an older retired woman and her friends. The young woman is training as a singer: she sang "Pie Jesu" at our Good Friday Service. The older women recently gave her a gift: a number of opera librettos.
After worship, one day, one of our young parents was in tears. I had announced the death of one of our older members that morning. I checked in with the young woman, concerned about why she was crying. "I'm sad about Pearl," she said. Pearl used to sit near their family and interacted with her children nearly every Sunday.
I suspect that we stereotype older people as resistant to change, stuck in their ways, and old-fashioned. May I offer this counterpoint: Resistance to change can come at any age, if we're honest about it. Some of the most progressive, open-minded, interesting people I know are past retirement age. Some of them are WAY past retirement age. It's true, some of them are tired, and have less energy than they did when they were twenty-five. (I know this because I have less energy than I did when I was twenty-five.) But they are a gift and a resource that we need to value much more than we do.
Here are just a few ways that older adults can enrich our congregations:
1. Mature Faith and Life Experiences. Certainly, you can get old without getting wise. But the sheer volume of faith stories and life experiences of the older members of our congregations is staggering. One widower recently told me about how he and his wife used to make the sign of the cross on each other's foreheads, before they went to sleep every night. One woman told the story about getting fired from a store job once long ago, because she wouldn't follow around "certain types of people" to find out if they were stealing. Another man talked about his experiences as a pilot in World War II. "I thought I'd never live to be 21," he said. There are thousands of stories out there from our older members -- stories of what it was like to leave the small town and come to the city, stories of faith and doubt and hardship, stories of love and loss and life.
2. Fewer Sacred Cows. There's something about getting old, and facing death, that clarifies what is important, and what is not important. My mother puts the liberal bumper stickers on her car, and she doesn't care who knows it. Older members of our congregation are often the ones who are most open to (for example) women pastors. In our congregation, it is our older members who have been coming up with some of the most interesting ideas for outreach to our community.
3. They are Going to Die. I hesitated to add this one at first, for a couple of reasons. One, it's true, we are all going to die someday, although it seems like we do a pretty good job avoiding that reality, sometimes. But then we can't. And, it's actually not a bad thing to be reminded of our mortality. It's not a bad thing to spend some time with people who have wrinkles, and whose physical limitations are out there for all to see. If we're lucky, we're all going to have gray hairs someday. What are we going to be like when we get there? What will be important to us then?
A number of young adults train here every spring to go out and lead mission trips all summer. On the Sunday morning before they leave, they worship at our early service, which is mostly attended by the older members of our congregation. And it's a beautiful sight, seeing the twenty-two year olds and the older congregation, all singing the liturgy together. And it's a beautiful sight, watching them after the service, as they listen and share with one another their plans, hopes and lives.
It's true. There's no way you can get around it. There are an awful lot of gray heads in our congregation. This is even more true in the summer when there are no Sunday School classes, and a fair number of our young families are sporadic in their attendance, for whatever reason. But, even in the fall, when the children and their families return, there are still an awful lot of gray heads in our congregation.
Back in the late 1950s and 1960s, when this church began, it was a much larger congregation than it is now. Back then, there were a thousand children in Sunday School (they say), and the congregation numbered about 3,000. The schools were overflowing as well; it was a young community with many families. The demographics of the community have changed since then, so, even with a steady (if smaller) stream of young families, the community, and the congregation skews older.
There's nothing we can do about it.
Well, there is one thing we can do:
We can start seeing those gray heads as a gift, and as a strength.
It already happens, on occasion. There is a teenage young woman who sits at worship every Sunday with an older retired woman and her friends. The young woman is training as a singer: she sang "Pie Jesu" at our Good Friday Service. The older women recently gave her a gift: a number of opera librettos.
After worship, one day, one of our young parents was in tears. I had announced the death of one of our older members that morning. I checked in with the young woman, concerned about why she was crying. "I'm sad about Pearl," she said. Pearl used to sit near their family and interacted with her children nearly every Sunday.
I suspect that we stereotype older people as resistant to change, stuck in their ways, and old-fashioned. May I offer this counterpoint: Resistance to change can come at any age, if we're honest about it. Some of the most progressive, open-minded, interesting people I know are past retirement age. Some of them are WAY past retirement age. It's true, some of them are tired, and have less energy than they did when they were twenty-five. (I know this because I have less energy than I did when I was twenty-five.) But they are a gift and a resource that we need to value much more than we do.
Here are just a few ways that older adults can enrich our congregations:
1. Mature Faith and Life Experiences. Certainly, you can get old without getting wise. But the sheer volume of faith stories and life experiences of the older members of our congregations is staggering. One widower recently told me about how he and his wife used to make the sign of the cross on each other's foreheads, before they went to sleep every night. One woman told the story about getting fired from a store job once long ago, because she wouldn't follow around "certain types of people" to find out if they were stealing. Another man talked about his experiences as a pilot in World War II. "I thought I'd never live to be 21," he said. There are thousands of stories out there from our older members -- stories of what it was like to leave the small town and come to the city, stories of faith and doubt and hardship, stories of love and loss and life.
2. Fewer Sacred Cows. There's something about getting old, and facing death, that clarifies what is important, and what is not important. My mother puts the liberal bumper stickers on her car, and she doesn't care who knows it. Older members of our congregation are often the ones who are most open to (for example) women pastors. In our congregation, it is our older members who have been coming up with some of the most interesting ideas for outreach to our community.
3. They are Going to Die. I hesitated to add this one at first, for a couple of reasons. One, it's true, we are all going to die someday, although it seems like we do a pretty good job avoiding that reality, sometimes. But then we can't. And, it's actually not a bad thing to be reminded of our mortality. It's not a bad thing to spend some time with people who have wrinkles, and whose physical limitations are out there for all to see. If we're lucky, we're all going to have gray hairs someday. What are we going to be like when we get there? What will be important to us then?
A number of young adults train here every spring to go out and lead mission trips all summer. On the Sunday morning before they leave, they worship at our early service, which is mostly attended by the older members of our congregation. And it's a beautiful sight, seeing the twenty-two year olds and the older congregation, all singing the liturgy together. And it's a beautiful sight, watching them after the service, as they listen and share with one another their plans, hopes and lives.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
The Simplest Things
Sometimes I still don't know what to say, even after all these years offering pastoral care in all kinds of situations. I learned that the daughter of a member of my parish died suddenly this morning; no one knows yet why. On the phone with him, I felt like a stumbling idiot, saying inane things.
Later on, I went to visit my dad in the nursing home where he lives. All the roads were under construction, it seemed, and when I got to his area, I didn't find him right away.
He was sitting at a table in the corner, his head down, with a piece of cake and some lemonade in front of him.
I went over and sat across from him and held his hands. "Hi Dad," I said in a loud voice. No response. "I'm here. It's Diane. How are you?"
No response. I bent down and looked him in the eye. I took both his hands, sang a chorus of 'You are my sunshine,' asked him, "What's black and white and red all over?" I sang a few words of "Where the blue of the night meets the gold of the day," and told everyone within earshot about how he used to sing his own version of 'The Sheik of Araby' to us when we were little.
The activity director came over and whispered in his ear. She said he was really good yesterday; she wished someone had been there. She gave him a little sip of lemonade. "Sometimes that wakes him up," she said. She said she thought maybe he was just tired. "Are you tired, dad?" I asked.
He closed his eyes.
I sang a little more, though, of course, I don't know all of the words. I asked him if he remembered helping me with my multiplication tables, or teaching me to drive. I told him he was a good dad.
Then I thought about how the activity director had spoken right into his ear. I leaned right into his ear and I said, "I love you."
He nodded.
I don't know why I hadn't thought of it before. The simplest thing.
"I love you, dad," I said, and he nodded and I thought that somehow, when he looked at me, he saw me, and suddenly, he remembered everything.
"What's black and white and read all over? Is it the newspaper?"
"Oh, yes," he said.
"Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the other side?"
Oh yes.
I sang a few words of "Where the blue of the night meets the gold of the day" and he hummed along. I told him that he was a good dad. I was glad to be his daughter. And it seemed like when he looked at me, for a little while, anyway, he remembered everything: the prayers, the jokes, buttering our toast and riding in the car and going to get Christmas trees in December.
I said I had to leave but I would try to be back soon.
Then I said it again, the only thing I knew to say, right in his ear.
"I love you, dad."
"I love you too."
The simplest thing.
Why didn't I think of it before?
Later on, I went to visit my dad in the nursing home where he lives. All the roads were under construction, it seemed, and when I got to his area, I didn't find him right away.
He was sitting at a table in the corner, his head down, with a piece of cake and some lemonade in front of him.
I went over and sat across from him and held his hands. "Hi Dad," I said in a loud voice. No response. "I'm here. It's Diane. How are you?"
No response. I bent down and looked him in the eye. I took both his hands, sang a chorus of 'You are my sunshine,' asked him, "What's black and white and red all over?" I sang a few words of "Where the blue of the night meets the gold of the day," and told everyone within earshot about how he used to sing his own version of 'The Sheik of Araby' to us when we were little.
The activity director came over and whispered in his ear. She said he was really good yesterday; she wished someone had been there. She gave him a little sip of lemonade. "Sometimes that wakes him up," she said. She said she thought maybe he was just tired. "Are you tired, dad?" I asked.
He closed his eyes.
I sang a little more, though, of course, I don't know all of the words. I asked him if he remembered helping me with my multiplication tables, or teaching me to drive. I told him he was a good dad.
Then I thought about how the activity director had spoken right into his ear. I leaned right into his ear and I said, "I love you."
He nodded.
I don't know why I hadn't thought of it before. The simplest thing.
"I love you, dad," I said, and he nodded and I thought that somehow, when he looked at me, he saw me, and suddenly, he remembered everything.
"What's black and white and read all over? Is it the newspaper?"
"Oh, yes," he said.
"Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the other side?"
Oh yes.
I sang a few words of "Where the blue of the night meets the gold of the day" and he hummed along. I told him that he was a good dad. I was glad to be his daughter. And it seemed like when he looked at me, for a little while, anyway, he remembered everything: the prayers, the jokes, buttering our toast and riding in the car and going to get Christmas trees in December.
I said I had to leave but I would try to be back soon.
Then I said it again, the only thing I knew to say, right in his ear.
"I love you, dad."
"I love you too."
The simplest thing.
Why didn't I think of it before?
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
People Are Needy. People are Gifted.
One of the hazards of visiting people in the hospital, in nursing homes, and while they are grieving is coming to regard people as the sum total of their needs and deficiencies.
I visit people when they can't get out of bed. I visit people when they are numb with grief. I visit people when they have forgotten who they are, or when their hands tremble, or when all they can swallow is the tiniest bit of a wafer dipped in wine. I visit people when they are helpless. I hold the hands of people who are at the end of their rope, and sometimes it feels like it is my job to tie the knot that they can hang on to. Or Something.
This is called Pastoral Care. It is to go and pray for people, to say the words of hope, to give the bread and wine that feeds people, to listen and to keep saying the most important things, "You are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked by the cross of Christ forever. God is for you. Nothing can separate you from God's love."
There's something humbling about this. I remember going into a hospital room where a parish member really wanted a nurse to take her to the bathroom more than she wanted to talk to me -- at least at that moment. Whatever it was I have to offer, it sometimes doesn't seem to be nearly enough.
But there's something else as well. When I go to visit someone in the hospital, or a nursing home, or to plan a funeral, and I call that "pastoral care", I'm tempted to see myself as the giver and the other person as the "needy person", and it's so much more complicated than that.
I also will go out to coffee with a church member, just to get to know them better, to hear some of their stories, to find out what they are passionate about, to learn about their family or their work. I once got to hear a story from a woman who broke up a schoolyard fight when she was ten, and knew, right away, that this was her vocation. Recently someone else called me and said she wanted to get together so she could figure out what she could offer to her church, now that she was retired.
I'm beginning to think that this is pastoral care too, and that pastoral care that focuses exclusively on people's neediness is not as helpful as it seems. Instead of just praying for people, maybe good 'pastoral care' will pray with people; instead of seeing myself as giver and the other as 'receiver', maybe good pastoral care will see us as partners, with gifts to offer each other, with ministry to do together, for the sake of the world.
Once I heard someone say the phrase "the less fortunate", as in "at Christmas-time, let's give to the 'less-fortunate.'" Something about the phrase bothered me, the way it separated people into "them" and "us" -- as in *them* the needy ones, and *us* the gifted ones, the fortunate, the givers. But it's a lot more complicated than that, isn't it? We're all needy, and we're all gifted. Some wounds are on the outside. Some gifts are hidden on the inside.
One of the hazards of visiting people in the hospital, in nursing homes, and while they are grieving is coming to regard people as the sum total of their needs and deficiencies.
The truth is, people (including me) are the sum total of their needs, their deficiencies, their stories, their gifts, their hopes, their fears, their strengths, their utter helplessness, and, most of all, the indelible mark of God upon their lives, which expresses their incalculable worth. "You are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked by the cross of Christ forever."
I visit people when they can't get out of bed. I visit people when they are numb with grief. I visit people when they have forgotten who they are, or when their hands tremble, or when all they can swallow is the tiniest bit of a wafer dipped in wine. I visit people when they are helpless. I hold the hands of people who are at the end of their rope, and sometimes it feels like it is my job to tie the knot that they can hang on to. Or Something.
This is called Pastoral Care. It is to go and pray for people, to say the words of hope, to give the bread and wine that feeds people, to listen and to keep saying the most important things, "You are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked by the cross of Christ forever. God is for you. Nothing can separate you from God's love."
There's something humbling about this. I remember going into a hospital room where a parish member really wanted a nurse to take her to the bathroom more than she wanted to talk to me -- at least at that moment. Whatever it was I have to offer, it sometimes doesn't seem to be nearly enough.
But there's something else as well. When I go to visit someone in the hospital, or a nursing home, or to plan a funeral, and I call that "pastoral care", I'm tempted to see myself as the giver and the other person as the "needy person", and it's so much more complicated than that.
I also will go out to coffee with a church member, just to get to know them better, to hear some of their stories, to find out what they are passionate about, to learn about their family or their work. I once got to hear a story from a woman who broke up a schoolyard fight when she was ten, and knew, right away, that this was her vocation. Recently someone else called me and said she wanted to get together so she could figure out what she could offer to her church, now that she was retired.
I'm beginning to think that this is pastoral care too, and that pastoral care that focuses exclusively on people's neediness is not as helpful as it seems. Instead of just praying for people, maybe good 'pastoral care' will pray with people; instead of seeing myself as giver and the other as 'receiver', maybe good pastoral care will see us as partners, with gifts to offer each other, with ministry to do together, for the sake of the world.
Once I heard someone say the phrase "the less fortunate", as in "at Christmas-time, let's give to the 'less-fortunate.'" Something about the phrase bothered me, the way it separated people into "them" and "us" -- as in *them* the needy ones, and *us* the gifted ones, the fortunate, the givers. But it's a lot more complicated than that, isn't it? We're all needy, and we're all gifted. Some wounds are on the outside. Some gifts are hidden on the inside.
One of the hazards of visiting people in the hospital, in nursing homes, and while they are grieving is coming to regard people as the sum total of their needs and deficiencies.
The truth is, people (including me) are the sum total of their needs, their deficiencies, their stories, their gifts, their hopes, their fears, their strengths, their utter helplessness, and, most of all, the indelible mark of God upon their lives, which expresses their incalculable worth. "You are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked by the cross of Christ forever."
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
That Moment When...
I had a pile of phone calls to make today, most of them asking people whether they would serve in a particular capacity, or be involved in community ministry.
But a few of them were just checking in.
I had this one piece of paper on my desk, a phone call I had tried to make a few days ago, because the woman's husband ask that I check in. Her mother had died recently, he said, and she was taking it hard. I had left a message before, but didn't throw the piece of paper away. I decided I ought to try to reach her one more time.
It was almost the end of the day. I dialed the number. The first thing I heard on the other end of the line: uncontrollable sobbing.
The woman had just found out, within the last hour, that her daughter had died.
"Who told you to call me?" she asked.
The Holy Spirit.
Perhaps.
Sometimes I don't pay attention. Sometimes despite myself, I do.
That's all I have to say, tonight. That's all I have to say.
Except this: when I arrived at her house, three of her friends from work were also with her, sitting with her, talking a little. God has many comforters.
That's all I have to say.
But a few of them were just checking in.
I had this one piece of paper on my desk, a phone call I had tried to make a few days ago, because the woman's husband ask that I check in. Her mother had died recently, he said, and she was taking it hard. I had left a message before, but didn't throw the piece of paper away. I decided I ought to try to reach her one more time.
It was almost the end of the day. I dialed the number. The first thing I heard on the other end of the line: uncontrollable sobbing.
The woman had just found out, within the last hour, that her daughter had died.
"Who told you to call me?" she asked.
The Holy Spirit.
Perhaps.
Sometimes I don't pay attention. Sometimes despite myself, I do.
That's all I have to say, tonight. That's all I have to say.
Except this: when I arrived at her house, three of her friends from work were also with her, sitting with her, talking a little. God has many comforters.
That's all I have to say.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Going Where the People Are
So, the other day, at the close of a pastor's meeting, one of my colleagues turned to me and said, "You're on Facebook a lot."
He said it as it if was a bad thing.
I'll admit, I had a little knee-jerk defensiveness. Was he saying that that fact that I was on Facebook "a lot" showed that I was a "bad pastor", or at least, did not have my priorities straight? Was his comment a veiled criticism or just an observation?
A fair number of my colleagues are also on Facebook. Some share and post and comment several times a day. Others have a Facebook account but rarely check in. Most are somewhere in the middle.
When I was in seminary, there was no such thing as Facebook. In fact, if you had said the words, "social media", you would have gotten a blank stare. It's not in the constellation of pastoral skills that we learn and grow adept at. I had a class in Pastoral Care and Counseling. I had a class in Mission (although not one in Evangelism, actually). So if I'm spending time at the nursing home or at the hospital, or even visiting people in their homes or at their workplaces, that's a legitimate use of time. If you are studying in your office, or leading a Bible study or (better yet) training a group of Bible study leaders, that's a good use of time. And if you are creating and sending and answering emails, I suppose that's a legitimate use of time.
But Facebook? Twitter?
A recent article in my denomination's monthly magazine, The Lutheran, had an article regarding the importance of visiting members in their homes. It was a good article (though the tone was a little scolding, I thought). I believe that we have neglected the art of visiting with people, in their homes and where they work. In the church-as-business model of the late twentieth century, we have sometimes neglected the church-as-relationship model of, well, every century. We need to be out there where the people gather.
But here's the thing:
one of the places that people gather these days is called Facebook.
So, yes, I'm on Facebook, sometimes actually not very much, but sometimes a lot. On Facebook, I found out that the mother of one of my former confirmation students was seriously ill. On Facebook, I read the obituary that one of my parish members wrote for her dad. One man informed me of his father's move to hospice care via Facebook message. Young adults have set appointments with me in the same way. I check it out, just like I might walk up and down my block, look out for neighbors when I am in the grocery store, or look for local stories when i read the newspaper.
Once in awhile, I've found Facebook a provocative conversation-starter. A great theological, missional conversation got started with the question, "What would you do for love?" Another time I asked friends to share the story of their names (I was musing over a sermon on the Name of Jesus.) I got 43 comments, and (may I say?) learned some wonderful stories. I was amazed by what people shared with me.
Pastors share ideas, and wisdom with one another over social media. It has become a sort of over-the-fence news source. And of course, it's not just a place to listen to others, but to share: ideas, quotes, pictures, songs.
Facebook is one of the places people gather, so sometimes I will be there, and even sometimes a lot. But it does have its limitations as well. So here are a few caveats:
1. Some people assume that if they have posted a concern on Facebook, everyone has seen it. If you have more than a few friends, they haven't.
2. Some things ARE better left unsaid on Facebook.
3. Facebook is not a substitute for face to face time with people. It broadens my world, but it doesn't necessarily deepen it. To do that, I need to do more than press like, comment or share. I need to look someone in the eyes, stand shoulder to shoulder, spend time, get tired, disagree, be forgiven, fail, succeed.
He said it as it if was a bad thing.
I'll admit, I had a little knee-jerk defensiveness. Was he saying that that fact that I was on Facebook "a lot" showed that I was a "bad pastor", or at least, did not have my priorities straight? Was his comment a veiled criticism or just an observation?
A fair number of my colleagues are also on Facebook. Some share and post and comment several times a day. Others have a Facebook account but rarely check in. Most are somewhere in the middle.
When I was in seminary, there was no such thing as Facebook. In fact, if you had said the words, "social media", you would have gotten a blank stare. It's not in the constellation of pastoral skills that we learn and grow adept at. I had a class in Pastoral Care and Counseling. I had a class in Mission (although not one in Evangelism, actually). So if I'm spending time at the nursing home or at the hospital, or even visiting people in their homes or at their workplaces, that's a legitimate use of time. If you are studying in your office, or leading a Bible study or (better yet) training a group of Bible study leaders, that's a good use of time. And if you are creating and sending and answering emails, I suppose that's a legitimate use of time.
But Facebook? Twitter?
A recent article in my denomination's monthly magazine, The Lutheran, had an article regarding the importance of visiting members in their homes. It was a good article (though the tone was a little scolding, I thought). I believe that we have neglected the art of visiting with people, in their homes and where they work. In the church-as-business model of the late twentieth century, we have sometimes neglected the church-as-relationship model of, well, every century. We need to be out there where the people gather.
But here's the thing:
one of the places that people gather these days is called Facebook.
So, yes, I'm on Facebook, sometimes actually not very much, but sometimes a lot. On Facebook, I found out that the mother of one of my former confirmation students was seriously ill. On Facebook, I read the obituary that one of my parish members wrote for her dad. One man informed me of his father's move to hospice care via Facebook message. Young adults have set appointments with me in the same way. I check it out, just like I might walk up and down my block, look out for neighbors when I am in the grocery store, or look for local stories when i read the newspaper.
Once in awhile, I've found Facebook a provocative conversation-starter. A great theological, missional conversation got started with the question, "What would you do for love?" Another time I asked friends to share the story of their names (I was musing over a sermon on the Name of Jesus.) I got 43 comments, and (may I say?) learned some wonderful stories. I was amazed by what people shared with me.
Pastors share ideas, and wisdom with one another over social media. It has become a sort of over-the-fence news source. And of course, it's not just a place to listen to others, but to share: ideas, quotes, pictures, songs.
Facebook is one of the places people gather, so sometimes I will be there, and even sometimes a lot. But it does have its limitations as well. So here are a few caveats:
1. Some people assume that if they have posted a concern on Facebook, everyone has seen it. If you have more than a few friends, they haven't.
2. Some things ARE better left unsaid on Facebook.
3. Facebook is not a substitute for face to face time with people. It broadens my world, but it doesn't necessarily deepen it. To do that, I need to do more than press like, comment or share. I need to look someone in the eyes, stand shoulder to shoulder, spend time, get tired, disagree, be forgiven, fail, succeed.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
I've Been Told that I'm Good at Pastoral Care
I have mixed feelings about that.
I don't know why, really, especially after last week. At the Stewardship Conference I attended, one of the speakers actually admonished us, "If you don't like pastoral care, you should find another line of work."
Well, I do like pastoral care. That is, I like caring for people, visiting with people, praying with people, listening to stories. I am sometimes astonished and humbled by what people share. And, occasionally, exhausted.
But I have still have mixed feelings about claiming pastoral care as one of my strengths.
Perhaps this goes back to seminary, where I loved Greek, Hebrew, Preaching and thinking about God. I loved the academic disciplines that I was immersed in. I was a little nervous about the pastoral care and counseling class. And (here I am going to share with you a little secret) some of the Theology and Biblical studies professors were just a titch dismissive of the practical disciplines. They did make it seem as if the most important thing was knowing whether that verb was present perfect or aortic. Going to the hospital was Optional. Also, I was positive when I entered seminary that my gift was preaching. It was not pastoral care.
It's possible, though, that my prejudice goes back further than academic studies, as I encountered some pastors who were "good at pastoral care." It's also possible that my prejudice extends to my honest reflection on my present ministry, and how good it can feel to be needed by people when they are vulnerable. I have seen pastors who were "good at pastoral care" cultivate neediness in others, and create systems that were dependent on them. I don't want to be one of those pastors. But, honestly, it does feel good to be needed.
So, I have been told that I'm good at pastoral care, but I fear it, too. It can be tremendously rewarding to be the helper, be the one people turn to, be the bringer of hope, and it can be tempting too. It can be tempting to let people lean on me too much, because it feels good to be leaned on. But good pastoral care only is occasionally about being leaned on. It is most often about helping people to stand straight and walk.
I don't know why, really, especially after last week. At the Stewardship Conference I attended, one of the speakers actually admonished us, "If you don't like pastoral care, you should find another line of work."
Well, I do like pastoral care. That is, I like caring for people, visiting with people, praying with people, listening to stories. I am sometimes astonished and humbled by what people share. And, occasionally, exhausted.
But I have still have mixed feelings about claiming pastoral care as one of my strengths.
Perhaps this goes back to seminary, where I loved Greek, Hebrew, Preaching and thinking about God. I loved the academic disciplines that I was immersed in. I was a little nervous about the pastoral care and counseling class. And (here I am going to share with you a little secret) some of the Theology and Biblical studies professors were just a titch dismissive of the practical disciplines. They did make it seem as if the most important thing was knowing whether that verb was present perfect or aortic. Going to the hospital was Optional. Also, I was positive when I entered seminary that my gift was preaching. It was not pastoral care.
It's possible, though, that my prejudice goes back further than academic studies, as I encountered some pastors who were "good at pastoral care." It's also possible that my prejudice extends to my honest reflection on my present ministry, and how good it can feel to be needed by people when they are vulnerable. I have seen pastors who were "good at pastoral care" cultivate neediness in others, and create systems that were dependent on them. I don't want to be one of those pastors. But, honestly, it does feel good to be needed.
So, I have been told that I'm good at pastoral care, but I fear it, too. It can be tremendously rewarding to be the helper, be the one people turn to, be the bringer of hope, and it can be tempting too. It can be tempting to let people lean on me too much, because it feels good to be leaned on. But good pastoral care only is occasionally about being leaned on. It is most often about helping people to stand straight and walk.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Nothing in My Hands I Bring
I went to the hospital yesterday. For some reason, I like to have a prayer book with me when I go to the hospital, even though I rarely use it. It's not that I don't pray; I always pray. I just don't use the prayer book. But, it's sort of a security blanket for me. I got used to bringing it long ago, when I was in seminary. And actually, it's not true that I never use it; there has been the odd occasion when I've needed to look up a psalm, or find a particular prayer. It's nice to have it in my hands, though. It seems like a small reminder of who I am, what I am called to do, sort of like wearing a clerical collar.
On a couple of occasions I have gone to the hospital in an emergency and discovered that I did not have my prayer book with me. I will confess that this always feels a little awkward, at first; it turns out that I want to have something in my hands when I visit, something I can hang on to.
The past few years, our congregation has also begun a prayer shawl ministry. We bring prayer shawls to people who are in the hospital, as a sign of the whole congregation's love and prayers for that person. I love handing the shawl over to the person, and seeing their delight in this physical thing that they can touch and see, a gift from our congregation to them. I love to have something, some-thing to give them as well.
Of course, every once in awhile, I forget to bring a shawl. I come, just me and my prayers, alone.
"Nothing in my hands I bring/Simply to thy cross I cling."
Then I am acutely aware of my sense of inadequacy, and the promise that God gives us that God will minister to others through us. It is not the prayer shawl, not the prayer book, not anything that I bring with me, it is the Word of God that God gives me and the treasure of God in the clay jar of my body.
"Nothing in my hands I bring/Simply to thy cross I cling."
I come empty-handed to the hospital, to the nursing home, to the places I go to proclaim God's love and mercy. But I come with the Word of promise, which is Christ's presence in me, and Christ's presence in us together. And we cling to the cross together.
On a couple of occasions I have gone to the hospital in an emergency and discovered that I did not have my prayer book with me. I will confess that this always feels a little awkward, at first; it turns out that I want to have something in my hands when I visit, something I can hang on to.
The past few years, our congregation has also begun a prayer shawl ministry. We bring prayer shawls to people who are in the hospital, as a sign of the whole congregation's love and prayers for that person. I love handing the shawl over to the person, and seeing their delight in this physical thing that they can touch and see, a gift from our congregation to them. I love to have something, some-thing to give them as well.
Of course, every once in awhile, I forget to bring a shawl. I come, just me and my prayers, alone.
"Nothing in my hands I bring/Simply to thy cross I cling."
Then I am acutely aware of my sense of inadequacy, and the promise that God gives us that God will minister to others through us. It is not the prayer shawl, not the prayer book, not anything that I bring with me, it is the Word of God that God gives me and the treasure of God in the clay jar of my body.
"Nothing in my hands I bring/Simply to thy cross I cling."
I come empty-handed to the hospital, to the nursing home, to the places I go to proclaim God's love and mercy. But I come with the Word of promise, which is Christ's presence in me, and Christ's presence in us together. And we cling to the cross together.
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